


Quiet Me

by TheBraveHobbit



Series: Taut [15]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Quiet Me<br/>Pairing: Jehan/Bahorel<br/>Summary: Bahorel comes home from a long-running tattooing session and finds that Jehan has had a rough night. </p><p>Content Warnings: Self-harm, depression</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my sandbox-style Modern!AU: Taut  
> Additional content can be found on my tumblr: elfjolras.tumblr.com

One of the best things about co-owning a body art parlor with your best mate was having a say about your hours. There was none of that grindstone 8-5 business that Feuilly had to deal with. Neither Grantaire nor Bahorel were morning people, and they designed their business accordingly. From day one, they had operated on a four-day-a-week schedule, splitting shifts so that the place was open from one in the afternoon until two in the morning, extending and adjusting their hours as needed to accommodate their regulars. Occasionally they hit a windfall, and someone commissioned an intricate piece that covered their expenses sufficiently that they could shut the whole shop down for a week or more, until they found themselves having to pay rent again. Those pieces were worth Bahorel staying up all night for, though his hands cramped and his eyes were burning by the time he dragged himself back to the apartment.

Jehan didn’t usually wait up for him—she had enrolled in morning classes to free her afternoons for work—and when he recognized their lights from the street, Bahorel felt uneasiness stir in his gut. There was no mistaking their apartment; Jehan had bedecked their section of fire escape with potted plants and flowering ivies, so the glow that reached Bahorel was only what could flit through the densely packed leaves, leaving a distinctive pattern on the sidewalk below in the absence of functional street lamps. He increased his pace and took the stairs two at a time. The door was unlocked.

“Babe?” He called, kicking roughly out of his shoes, piling the tattered sneakers on the kitchen mat. “Babe, everything alright?”

There was no answer.

“Jehan!”

“In here.”

Bahorel didn’t hesitate before pushing open the bathroom door, smothering an exclamation at the sight that greeted him: his girlfriend seated on the side of the bathtub, leaned against the tile wall and folded into herself, cradling her raw arms over the pink puddles that had formed around the drain. She always looked so small when she was upset, her long arms and legs tucked tight against her torso as she rocked back and forth like a child. Bahorel bit his tongue. Loud was his default, but he’d known Jehan long enough to understand that his shouting was the last thing she needed right now.

He didn’t ask what had happened, only knocked down the lid to the toilet so he could sit near her, waiting for her permission before he moved any closer, his teeth digging into his cheek as he struggled to find words that he trusted enough to let past his lips, terrified of making things worse.

Bahorel was no good at this. He didn’t know how to fix things, how to provide comfort. Problems he couldn’t solve with his fist were problems best left to other people. Sarcasm and aggression carried him through most of his days, and he was proud of the way he could square his shoulders and set his feet. He’d never backed down from a fight, and he’d never hesitated to give or take a hit for his friends. Jehan was the healer. Bahorel was a force of destruction, a thing for others to point and aim and stand back as he was allowed to wreak havoc.

All the more frustrating then, that Jehan’s demons were not a thing he could fight.

Because he would.

He wanted to.

Desperately.

Sitting quietly was difficult, and his fists clenched and unclenched with the effort and frustration of waiting. After a long while, she looked up at him and her eyes were rimmed with red, eyelashes pressed together with tears. Bahorel’s gut convulsed, as guiltily as if he’d been the source of her sorrow. How long had she been crying?

“I’m sorry.” She murmured, scooting along the side of the tub to lay her head on his knees, her arms still cradled in her lap. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bahorel shook his head, running his fingers through her hair, careful of the tangles there. “You don’t have to apologize to me, babe.”

“I’m a wreck.”

“Only a little one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I got the first aid kit out.”

Bahorel turned his head, craning his neck to see where she had propped it beside the sink. Their kit got too much mileage by far, but because it was almost always in use it was also always being restocked. Bahorel kept one hand in her hair and reached the other to pull the kit towards him, popping it open on the counter and tugging free the zip lock of cotton squares.

“Can I?” He asked gently.

Jehan offered up one wrist. The smooth, even cuts had already dried, and he gently swabbed at the crusted blood until her arm was clean again before laying fresh squares over them and binding the wounds with athletic tape. Though the alcohol swabs snagged and pulled at the tears in her skin, Jehan didn’t lift her head as she offered her other arm and he repeated the process.

“Come here.” Bahorel pulled her to him, sliding his arm beneath her knees and lifting her. She hardly weighed anything for as tall as she was, and he felt her curl into his neck, her nose pressed against his shoulder. Jehan’s breathing was ragged, and her whole body was trembling. She folded her arms close to her chest as he carried her back into their living room. Bahorel lifted her over the back of the couch and set her against the cushions. “I’m going to make some coffee, okay?” It sounded stupid, falling out of his mouth like that, but it was the first thing he could think to do. Jehan loved coffee.

“Okay.”

Thank god for the instant stuff. It wasn’t great coffee, but he didn’t want to spend the time to brew anything good. A minute waiting by the microwave was a minute longer than he wanted to be away, and he didn’t bother to make himself a mug before returning to the living room. Jehan was curled into a tiny ball, her knees pulled as close to herself as she could manage with Chapeau snuggled into the curve of her stomach. Her fingers were tangled in the cat’s thick hair, and Chapeau seemed content to let her have her way, his chin propped upon her hip as he watched for Bahorel’s return. Bahorel tugged at the cat’s ears as he set the coffee within Jehan’s reach, shifting his girlfriend by the shoulders and squeezing between her and the couch. He rested her head in his lap and began to run his hand down her arm from her shoulder to her elbow. He was so bad at this.

“Talk to me.” She asked, her voice barely audible.

“About what?”

“Anything.”

“Anything?” He said, a little helplessly. Anything was a broad topic.

“Anything.” She paused. “Your tattoo.”

“Which one?” There were a lot of them.

“The tiger.”

He shifted a little. People generally just assumed that a tough guy wanted a tough tattoo; rarely did anyone inquire further. He wasn’t used to explaining it.

“It’s a poem.” The dark silhouette on his chest, the roaring beast that crossed his pectorals…it was a work of art. He never would have trusted anyone but Grantaire to do such fine lines. The words of the poem were elegantly scripted and tightly pressed, tumbling over each other to form the tiger’s whiskered face and the first two stripes down the creature’s back until the tattoo ended at the tiger’s shoulders, pressed against the left side of Bahorel’s ribs. The font was miniscule, however, and nobody would have been able to read it without getting very, very close.

“Blake, right?” Jehan had been very, very close.

“Mmm.” He nodded. “It’s…a reminder that things can be beautiful and terrible all at once, and that gentleness comes from the same place as ferocity. And that nobody fucks with a tiger.”

“I do sometimes.” He looked down. Jehan’s eyes were closed, but there was the tiniest smile on her lips.

Relieved, Bahorel laughed a little and reached to smooth her hair out of her face. “Yeah.” He agreed. “Yeah, you do.”


End file.
